In order, from left to right, the front-most part of my desk:

Empty Pepsi bottle
Zellers receipt
Keys
Empty Coke bottle
Power cord to unknown device
Christmas card from Julia
H.A. Ironside's "Ezra, Nehemiah and Ester"
Stack of class handouts
Bible with name enbossed on cover
Dell Axim X5
Nail clipper
Loose change
Mouse pad
Fork
Peanuts/Arachides
Alarm Clock
Empty Pepsi bottle

The work that a spermazoid exherts while swimming the phelopian tubes is proportionately compared to a human body breast-stroking through a city block of dry concrete.

And you thought you  had it tough.

It was made up of rippings of constrcution paper, yellows, greens, blues. It wasn't really finished yet, the image not of one of any existing thing. The Artist still hadn't perfected his collage.

I watched him walk away. Seems he had run out of paste. You know the collage type of paste, disciplined and committed. Being the master artist he is, you wouldn't think he would let something as foolish as this happen, but as far as I knew he was just that, foolish.

As he left, the Artist's collage suffered a great loss; all the Yellow bits forming a circular pattern began to peel. I imagine that part to have been a dipiction of the sun or something of the like. The happy parts, you know.

Soon enough, the yellow bits had fallen off completely, and fallen to the floor. The Artist was no where to be seen. And as you would bet, soon enough thereafter, some more peices started to hang off, to peer over the edge, to see where the yellow bits had gone.

Red, Black, White, Orange, Green, they all peered past their own understandings, beyond the paste by which they had been joined together, to inquire, curiously, mischeviously the fate of their beloved friend. Is there life after the collage, after the paste? Is it better than the collage as it is? They all wanted to know.

I called out for the artist, but my poor blue voice couldn't carry very far. I tried to warn him, for him to return, to re-apply the paste, but to no avail. The other colours began denying their purpose, their reason for being pasted. They started pushing themselves off. Slowly, piece by piece, the collage fell apart. All the little flakes of construction paper floated softly from their Artist's easel to the cold floor, where they served to satisfy their own interests.

I stayed well still; maybe the paste had failed? Maybe I was wrong, that they hadn't pushed off, but that the paste wasn't good enough. Yea, that's it. I had to stay very well still, if I moved around too much, the disciplined and commited paste might fail. I might fall off and displease the Artist too.

It's too bad though, because a sticky white sheet of paper dotted with Blue shards is no picture at all; alone, the purpose of the picture is not served. Perhaps even though I have chosen not to betray the paste holding me where I am placed may cause me to be thrown out, disregarded, simply because of the others' choices.

Only time will tell, once the Artist returns, ofcourse.

I, Andrew, Inspector General of the Quality of the Kingdom of Blue hereby award the title of Randomness Queen of the Day to Rachelle for her outstanding random performance described as "ABC's in the Hallway ".

Boldly, Rachelle walked the hallway, passing the Fourth Floor Lounge singing the Alphabet in complete chorale style, at a brisk pace, pausing not even for the door blocking her path. An excellent show.

She was promptly phoned, by a stunning lad, to say that he was rather impressed. Laughter ensued.

This award, specific to gender, is second only to the Highest Quality Gold Star   award, presented once a year to an individual effectively employing quality in either conscious everyday activties or unconcsious subliminal mindthinkings. There is only one such award holder todate. All should actively seek it.

All you have experienced to date is simply a memory.

All that you know, feel, think, is simply an experienced expression of your higher self, off in heaven or elsewhere, remembering a life that has already passed by.

Really, we are re-expieriencing our choices, and learning as part of growth for the second time, although for some estranged reason we have decided to block 99% of what we understand as "to come" from ourselves. Since we already know it, wouldn't a reproduction of a life passed by be more accurate if the reproduction in its current playback timeframe did not know the events to come, as it originally was?

However, there remains that 1%. Glimpses, dreams, déjà-vu, prophecies. Fed to us, by us, or by God.

And what of the ability to pause playback, revisit previous memories, or advance to others. Is time so linear? Is there a beginning and an end to these memories beyond the conscious life?

Perhaps time is a man-made concept. That to assign a value to our lives we choose to put a number beside it, and say, "I affected the world around me for this long," when truthfully the length of affliction was but a sparkle in the eye of a universe outlived only by God.

Now I will retire to the memory of the beginning of the universe, given to me by memory outside--or maybe I simply mean my curiosity--of swirling gas and dust exploding outwards and slowly caving inwards, back and forth like a pendulum beyond time, beyond physics, beyond all that we know or even dare to understand.

Such knowledge is best left in the hands of God.

Well I would like to explain my absence from this site, but it wasn't all my fault. Recently I fell off the face of the Earth...If anyone ever told you it was round...I am sorry but they lied to you.Faling off the face of the planet really isn't all that scary, but it is a long fall, and thankfully someone pus some pillows down to prevent breaking yourself. I would not recoment it though, it may not hurt, but man is it lonly!
Another plus side...there is a shuttle service to bring you back up, but it doesnt run too often...so i was gone for far longer than i had intended. I am sorry.

I really want bacon

She walks alone, on her nightly--or morningly--duty. As her job entails, she leaves her dormatory to unlock the school's buildings. Six in the morning is her deadline.

The dorm front door is unlocked, no problem. Key in, key out. On her way to the first building outside, there is a click and a car light; someone is out there.

She snaps her stance to her right, maglight firm in both hands, slugger position.

"Good morning", the dark figure says.

"Oh, hi", she responds, "You scared the crap out of me".

"Sorry about that, we're good guys, really."

Midnight violent tragedy averted, for atleast one more day.

Dear Dalcow (aka: Carl)

Upon being pointed out my errors in not paying your company its ounstanding bill, I have enclosed a cheque payable for the full amount outstanding. The account will be payed in Standard Andrew Credits, redeemable through any person named Andrew MacGregor.

Please contact me regarding any further discrepancies.

Andrew MacGregor

He walks down the hall, one foot lifting higher than the other, and enters the door on his right. He finds himself a chair and puts his books down in front of it. As mangled as they are, he exposes them to no one. He would always tell anyone who inquired they are, "Simply tired."

All through class his life is relived; debts unpaid, responsibilities ignored. He sits, wondering, having his priorities, his normalities rearraged so that the world around him doesn't change theirs. Conformity. Even as he tries to leave, he's held back by the leash saying, "Change, do things my way".

Intelligent as he is, he finds compromise. He sells his grade for some peace of mind. Neandering down the hall, limping in his mind, he's thrown into walls, interrogated, denied privacy.

He sits and ponders. Wondering and calculating his surroundings and their incompetence, their insanity.

He asks himself aloud, "How can their perceptions and understandings be so spectrally opposite? How can they see what I see, understand it, and ignore it?"

Maybe he doesn't see it himself; maybe he is incapable of looking in a mirror and seeing the truth for himself; that really, truthfully it is he who is insane, it is he who sees what he sees, understands it, and ignores it. Who will be the one to bail him out of his self-imposed misery?

He suddenly throws his books, his misshapen, crying, near destroyed books and throws them at peoples' faces, and in a fit of rage yells out, "Maybe now you'll understand!"

Well.

Tomorrow marks Rejoice weekend trip number two. This trip features a 1.5 hour drive to ferry, two hour ferry ride, 2 hour drive from ferry to Comox, where we will arrive Saturday evening. We will play one service Sunday morning and return.

Given the state our group left in after practice Tuesday, I predict this weekend to be very trying, both musically and politically.

Chris is out with a busted thumb, and Dan is filling in. Even though Chris is our leader he has, much to his delight, been relieved of the responsibility of the weekend; he does not "have to go". Ofcourse, playing with a filler musician is always tough.

But also, there is a lot of tension between members and their leadership. I know that I spoke to Dave, and I am right with him. We should be fine. However I don't know if any of the rest of the team has made amends. Maybe the rest of the team still feels we've been so wronged?

I know that there is room for improvement, on both sides. As a musician, I need a leader to follow, and all the leaders were not taking authority and all the non-leaders were, while random outbursts of absolutist oligarchy came from the higher authority. Everything is unclear, and political agendas are "created"...Why is he doing this? Who gives him the right? And so on. On the other hand, I can see why Dave would be so hurt. I had no intention of doing any "mud slinging" or to have "secret meetings" but this is how my actions have been conveyed, and for that I am wrong and should be more careful.

But again, to our leader... Shouldn't he desire to be in the group? He's so overjoyed he doesn't have to go that it makes me sick he's in the group at all. Rejoice has been so good for me; last year taught me a lot. I love doing this, travelling, playing, and bonding with some friends. But Rejoice is a real chore this year. As much as I want to go on this trip and have a good time, I am reluctant to get excited, because I know exaclty how the weekend will go: laughs on the trip, super-meaningful conversations at billets, last-minute, seemingly rediculous orders from Dave, laughs on the way home, and then some idle chatter about what went wrong on the trip afterwards. I am apprehensive; he is just simply destructive.

When was Rejoice fun? When did they play outside of "the Set".? When did they go out more than 5 times all year? Rejoice can be so much more than it is, but people and their attitudes are getting in the way. What happened to worship? I want a fresh start.

When was the last time I stopped to think, to enjoy my surroundings?

When was the last time I walked behind the group, not to be a follower, not to maintain my reputation of a slow walker, but to enjoy the walk?

When was the last time I stepped outside, exhaled as much as would come out, and inhaled till I would burst?

When was the last time I held a leaf in my hand, rubbing it between finger and thumb? Take a close look, to watch the colonies of insects, running around in cute little economic patterns.

When was the last time I sat on a bridge, or pier, and looked up at the stars, trying to count them, only to realize it is easier to count how many times I fail counting them than it is to actually count them? Or even that I would sit and watch the water, calm, never disturbed, or rushing, going, hurrying somewhere off to unknown places.

When was the last time I chose to freeze my butt off in an attempt to calm myself, to look around and breathe, to live life a little bit? Has my life become that of a river's? Go, go, gone.

When was the last time I put aside my routine and made a rountine walk through this park called Life? Will I walk with my head in the clouds, knowing what it is that I am missing down on earth? What if a flower should take seed, grow, and die, and I saw none of it? What part would I have had in my surrounding's lives if I continue to b-line everywhere I go?

When was the last time I got invovled in existence, instead of merely existing. Surely I have some catching up to do.

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 23.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal...along with these instructions




"It is to be feared that very few Christians are faithful in giving after their ability."

Notes on the book of Ezra-- H.A. Ironside

So I saw the movie the Incredibles, and it was pretty rad, but it left me wondering, if I could have any super power, what would I want? The most obvious are the ability to fly, super strength or X-ray vision. These would be cool, but kind of boring in the sense that they are the most common super powers. I think that it might be useful...Or at least cool...To have the ability to control one or more forces of nature (somewhat like everyone's favorite Cpt. Planet). What about the ability to read minds? I think that one would back fire, do you really want to know if someone thinks you are totally annoying or simply can't stand you? I think it would be the best if you could transform in some way, like into anything you want, or even if you only have a few options of what you can change into. Or I think being able to be invisible would have some serious cool options....

Ever shot an entire team of baddies and wished you could mark them? I mean like "Haha, piss on you, I shot you all!" It is known, that whenever I shoot up a baddie, I like to spray him. No, not quite like that. I whip out my spray can and give a paint job.

Counterstrike is the game where two opposing teams start on either side of an "area" or "map". The game finishes when either team is completely eliminated. Team choices are "terrorist" or "counter-terrorist". Buy guns. Kill. Creative?

Lotsa people like to spray their prey. But those who are coolest have a *custom* spray.

o.O

I have decided today to share it with all of you, in its resurrected glory, as it has not been sprayed for quite some time now.



Analysis

"ecnalubmA" is my gamer name. It spells ambulance backwards. Obvious? I guess not. Sometimes I will play with online gamers and it will take them weeks for it to click in. Why choose such a name? It looked like fun. I like it anyways. BACK OFF!

"Pwns" is the now normally accepted mistyped "owns". The "P" key and "O" key are neighbours on the keyboard, and often in our frustrated madness, one is missed for the other. To claim you "own" someone, you gotta shoot 'em up real good. "Haha, I pwn u!"

Just as anything else, "Joo" is gamer talk, also. It sounds like "you" if you keep your teeth together, or have some kind of speach impediment, or really just simply for the sake of furthering gamer talk and choosing never to have a real English word in the gaming vocabulary.

Together, with the image of the ambulance, psychodelic, spiriling, tie-die like rainbow, and a couple of gunnerguys, the message I spray on my prey is one of ridicule: "You Suck!" After spraying this image on the dead bodies, I like to do a dance, or shoot another baddie in quick succession.

I applaud you for reading through all of this; you are now officially dumber than when you started reading it! If you skipped through, you suck. And I spray you!

The life of a fish is the funniest thing ever! People say they only have like a three second attention span. That is way better than me....Ok so i can concentrate for more than three seconds, but if you consider the avreage goldfish lives one month, and humans live anywhere from 80-100 years, comparitivly the fish is able to concenrate for three whole days!!! (very rough calculations here...don't stone me!). So anyways, the poor pet fish of this world spend most of their short lives trying to escape their small confines. Sometimes life feels like that, school is often described as a 'fish bowl', but what are we trying to escape to? All drains may lead to the sea, but it might not be pretty.

Ingredients:

3-4 graveyard work shifts
2 morning classes
3 hours of sleep
1 smashed up bike
1 seemingly useless Rejoice meeting after another
a handful of loneliness
too many bills to count

Instructions:

Take all ingredients and mix together in a small bowl quickly, as to avoid the bowl's ability to adapt to each ingredient seperately. The more spontaneous the better. Do not let settle, in fact, keep all contents of the bowl stirring incessantly, to cause sleep deprivation and eventual, but imminent burn-out. Do not refridgerate or let cool, do not serve. This bowl is forever wasted, filled with above issues, to be rotted, and eventually thrown out.

Alternate flavour:
1 piece, big or small, love
After stirring all primary ingredients, add love, and prayer (as love would entail), as needed. Ingredients should magically conform to greatest volume to surface area ratio (a sphere, or ball like shape) and harden quickly. Contents should just as quickly fall out, leaving bowl empty, ready for use yet again.

Don't say anything at all.

The world awake is too interesting
You're not even a part of it
I am simply fighting it

Sleep abounds and
Silent, humbled irreverance
Takes over blinding the soul
The mind to a place of
Blackened serenity

What choice do you have
You Choose apathy like
The child chooses to be fed

I went to the zoo the other day, and I have mixed feelings about it. I mean it is cool that people from the city can see wild animals, and they are just so beautiful, but they seem kinda depressed. The worst was the rhino, he was the only anomal from the wild. But even so...they must know that they are getting the short end of the stick. It was cool to see the Lion and Tiger Feeding...but it was also pathetic, huge magnificant animals running after little chunks of meat being thrown into a small enclosure. Sad. And i guess they help keep enimals from extinction, but is it to huge a price to pay?

The Hippo was cool!